


Bring back my heartbeat/Bring me the starlight

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [2]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mainly domestic fluff, More interested in exploring their relationship outside the cases, and it's sorta canon compliant, and we needed fluff after ep 7, but mostly I ignore the canon cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: “Don’t scratch it. You’ll make it worse.” If Sherlock whines, Wato certainly doesn’t say anything. Or commit the sound to memory. Or feel a chill down her back. “I’ll change it in the morning.”“So fussy.”“So reckless.”(The quiet moments in between.)





	Bring back my heartbeat/Bring me the starlight

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't re-read this so any mistakes are my own. Just felt like a little fluff and it grew lol.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Delain's song "Stardust"

I

 _This is ridiculous,_ is the first thought going through Wato’s still sleep-smudged head. It’s also the third, fourth and fifth. The second is – _We’re out of earl grey tea._ She opens the top cupboard, then the narrow one next to it, then the two on the other side. Even checks under the sink. Goes so far as to take a peek (or squint if anyone were to come it) in the trash.

No cups. She can’t find cups anywhere in the kitchen. As if they were all whisked away but Mrs. Hatano hadn’t said anything about a party or guests or any gathering involving over a dozen cups. They could’ve been robbed but who steals cups and forces Wato to make coffee at 83 degrees in a _glass_ –

Sherlock.

Wato storms into Sherlock’s apartment, doesn’t even bother knocking, and nearly topples over an armchair because it’s not supposed to be there. Come to think of it, none of the furniture in the sitting room’s where it should be; each piece shoved to the side to make room for – Well, it might be rude to call it a mess but Wato doubts anyone but Sherlock or an artist would look at this – this _mess_ with any sliver of value. And Sherlock’s yet to bring any artistic friends other than the tall forgery expert so –

“Sherlock?”

There’s a noise in the kitchen, and Wato carefully edges along the mess of cups – notes with exasperation that her favourite is right in the middle of it. She barely skims along the doorframe when the smell hits her full force. Her eyes water, and she has to clap her hands over her nose and mouth.

“What is that smell?”

“Perfume,” Sherlock says simply. She doesn’t even bother to look away from her work. Despite her better judgement Wato comes closer, leans over her shoulder to see her second favourite cup filled with pinkish water and brown sludge.

“It’s a stinky perfume.”

“That’s the manure.”

“Manure?!” Wato jerks back, not at all to avoid Sherlock’s piercing look – annoyed even behind her goggles, which are ridiculous and adorable at the same time and maybe Wato snickers behind her hands.

“What do you want?” Sherlock lowers the cup and empties a bottle of green liquid into it. It sizzles ominously.

“You stole all the cups,” Wato deadpans. She jumps back as Sherlock waves the cup in large arcs, still sizzling and somehow smelling worse. “Must you wave it around?”

“It’s not stealing if we own the cups.” Wato wrinkles her nose as Sherlock sniffs the cup, and silently marvels how the woman doesn’t even twitch at the odour. Then without even looking up Sherlock takes a brown cup with little kitten faces (Wato’s third favourite) and pushes it in Wato’s direction. “This one’s fine for coffee.”

_Of course it’s fine for coffee, but you make tea in a glass Wato._

“And don’t touch the other cups!” Wato flinches, snapping her hand back from trying to get her cup. Sherlock doesn’t peek from her kitchen, so no one sees Wato stick her tongue in her direction.

It’s only back in the kitchen, with the water boiling, that Wato notices the cup’s filled with little chocolates. Unopened too. Her lips curl into a small smile and she melts a few pieces into Sherlock’s coffee.

\----

(It doesn’t, however, make up for cleaning manure out of a dozen or so cups.)

———————

II

“Stop squirming,” Wato admonishes.

“I’m not.” But Wato’s hand tightens on Sherlock’s forearm when the insufferable woman does it _again._ Wato looks up, ready to give her a _What did I say_ look but stops short at Sherlock’s pout. Ever since Wato physically stopped and did a double take the first time Sherlock pouted, the woman’s been adamant on using it to throw her off. And it works every single time.

Wato lowers her head, concentrates on treating Sherlock’s burns from yet another reckless experiment rather than the blush on her cheeks or Sherlock’s pleased smirk. She scoops up the ointment and sets on applying it.

She’s barely set her fingers down when Sherlock flinches, but this time she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t force Wato to tighten her hold. Instead there’s a sharp intake above Wato’s head, and the burns press stubbornly against Wato’s coated fingers. With a hum Wato dabs her fingers upward.

If Sherlock notices Wato slipping her other hand down until she’s holding Sherlock’s wrist, she doesn’t say anything. If she realises how Wato squeezes to match each flinch, she doesn’t point it out. And if Wato lingers when applying the gauze, Sherlock chooses to meticulously study Wato’s technique and that includes all the places where she could improve.

“Perhaps I’ll be so lucky and won’t have to practice on you.”

“One can’t completely negate the probability of burns during an experiment, even with the proper safety precautions.”

Wato sighs. She can feel Sherlock’s eyes on her back, and she studiously concentrates on putting her supplies back. (She’s gotten rather good at taking them out and putting them back with alarming speed. It’s something she should’ve gotten good at, but after giving up on medicine, on the clinic, after coming to 221B Wato thought she wouldn’t have a reason to.)

“But I’m finished with that particular experiment.” Wato looks over to find Sherlock lounging back on the couch, lazing about like a cat. As if Wato hadn’t come in at the sudden _bang_ and was met with a one sleeved Sherlock covered in moss (the other sleeve a charred mess). So you’ll understand Wato’s reservations.

“At least until I find more hypothesises to break. But –” Sherlock tosses her head back, and waves her uninjured hand in a dismissive manner. “The uses of moss as a conductor has become such a dull topic.”

Wato wants to laugh, but settles for shaking her head. She’s about to leave, yet movement in the corner of her eye stops her. With barely any force behind it she slaps Sherlock’s itchy fingers away from the gauze.

“Don’t scratch it. You’ll make it worse.” If Sherlock whines, Wato certainly doesn’t say anything. Or commit the sound to memory. Or feel a chill down her back. “I’ll change it in the morning.”

“So fussy.”

“So reckless.”

\----

(In the morning, Sherlock foregoes squirming, looks too dazed from sleep to squirm. Yet the moment Wato gets the gauze off Sherlock’s eyes take on a curious glint and Wato has to physically put herself between Sherlock and her burnt forearm less the woman’s poking makes it worse.

It’s only when a new gauze has been set that Wato realises she’s basically sitting in Sherlock’s lap. Judging by the ecstatic grin on her face, she knew. She enjoys flustering Wato too much.)

———————

III

Wato never thought how soothing it is to wake up to the sound of Sherlock playing the cello. Well, she never thought she’d wake up to the sound of a cello at all, but semantics. (At least it’s not a flute. She’s had enough of those during college and they help nothing when you’re clinging to barely 3 hours of sleep.)

The first time had been jarring – a night spent tossing and turning, mind running through the previous day, clinging to the notion she has only the clothes on her back; a morning greeting her with a foreign room and far too sticky. It took her an embarrassingly long time to figure out the music came from Sherlock’s room. And that made it all feel real.

She even made a playlist of compositions for cello, even a few covers played on a cello, for harder nights. Then to shifted from harder nights to trips to work, to trips to town, to humming it while doing chores around the house.

Today’s is cut short however, and Wato pouts at the lack of music. Not for the first time she wishes her fingers weren’t so rigid on an instrument. (Sometimes she wonders where she would be if she pushed to learn the violin rather than how to sew. Either very successful or working odd jobs. Ironic.)

Wato’s moving down the stairs when the music picks up again, and follows Wato to the kitchen like a warm blanket, hitting a high note as she puts the kettle on, simmering beneath the surface while she searches for the tea, blooms as the beans sizzle –

“Oh.” Wato knows that rhythm, keeps going back to it for the past week or so, particularly on breaks in between waves of customers at the tea shop. And that one afternoon Sherlock spent analysing a plant and Wato was left to wait. Did she hum it then? Wato can’t recall, but –

But this is definitely that. Except there’s no second build-up in the version Wato knows – it ends abruptly after the build-up, leaving Wato at the height of a hill and looking at the city, searching or waiting or –

_(“I’m not your personal radio, you big oaf,” Sherlock glared at her brother, who looked like he expected such an answer.)_

Sherlock builds it back up, more erratic than the first, cleaner cuts, pitch rising and rising and rising – and then it lulls with a final drawn out note. It brings Wato back to the present with its cold counter, its steaming coffee, the smell of it mixed with green tea and wet cheeks.

She quickly wipes at her eyes, feeling light and perhaps even a bit giddy. She didn’t know she needed this.

\----

(“You look chipper.”

“I slept well.”

It’s a lie – she tossed and turned most of the night, fingers twitching with phantom shocks, arms jerking trying to get out of her bonds, darkness creeping in like a vice, head thrown back wishing it would just end, wishing Sherlock would come and get her –

It’s been weeks since.

Wato didn’t sleep well.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, cup obscuring most of her face. Wato stares right back, waits for her to point out the lie, but Sherlock simply dives into their newest case with a satisfied shine in her eyes.)

———————

IV

Wato wonders, not for the first time, how much inspector Reimon pays Sherlock. Or perhaps her brother covers part of the expenses, but Sherlock doesn’t seem the type to accept such help. Hell, Wato’s certain Sherlock doesn’t want to get paid for consulting but the inspector insisted. (He’s certainly brought up the possibility of signing Wato on as a consultant. She’s yet to give him a definitive answer.)

Why is she wondering about money? Sherlock just ordered half of the main courses, citing a third as _this combination is curious_ another as _these are simply good_ and the last suspiciously contains all the dishes Wato mumbled she hadn’t tried. Sherlock waved off her concerns but seeing so much food for just the two of them doesn’t sit well with Wato.

Or it could be the corpse they investigated that morning. It was one of the more gruesome with most of the body scattered around the initial point. _“Not an explosion,”_ Sherlock had said, and it just made the scenario worse.

“It was done by a long blade,” Sherlock says in between bites, excited and coupled with her stuffed cheeks makes her look adorable.

“Must you talk about that while we’re eating?”

“Why waste time?”

“To enjoy the meal.”

Sherlock gives her a long, searching look. Wato tries to distract her by nudging her bowl closer – she’s seen Sherlock eye that noodle one too many times to be a coincidence. Doesn't matter that Sherlock has four plates of her own.

The distraction works, a bit too well when Wato’s insides twist at Sherlock’s pleased grin. For a split second.

“Why did you quit your job?” _Of all the subjects_.

“I was fired,” Wato mumbles, the plate in front of her suddenly interesting.

“For what? Knowing too much about pottery? Being overqualified?”

“Budget cuts.”

“So they toss out their best worker. Ridiculous.” Wato looks up at the heat in Sherlock’s tone, and narrows her eyes once she realises Sherlock’s leaning forward, eyes trained on her sweet rolls. Wato puts a hand so Sherlock has to straighten back to look at the plate.

“No. You can’t have my rolls.”

“So greedy.” Sherlock gives her one of her wide grin, skirting between wild and wicked, and it lodges in the back of Wato’s throat. Wato clears her throat, catches the tail end as Sherlock’s eyes snap to Wato’s plate and Wato makes a split-second decision.

She raises her hand quick enough to slap Sherlock’s away, the woman’s fork grazing Wato’s knuckles. And the woman has the gall to pout, leaning on her elbows and shoulders slumping for added effect.

“I said no,” Wato admonishes.

“Harsh. Greedy. Still sour over your job.” Sherlock squints in that way she does when she’s trying to figure something out, and Wato’d rather she didn’t do that.

“I’ll trade you this plate –” Wato doesn’t have many opportunities to leave Sherlock speechless (read: a total of none so far) and honestly food was the last on the list of possibilities. “The sauce is too spicy –”

“The sauce is superb.” Sherlock snatches the plate with a _tsk_ and digs in like she hasn’t eaten in days. It’s almost heartbreaking to see it broken by a call from the inspector.

\----

(Wato does drag herself long enough to ask the waiter if they’d send the leftover food to the house, and pay with the money Sherlock begrudgingly tossed at her – or rather the _wallet_ Sherlock tossed.

And back home she leaves her bowl of (chocolate) ice cream close to Sherlock so the woman doesn’t have to pretend she’s not stealing from Wato’s bowl. The small curl of Sherlock’s lips whenever she takes a bit of Wato’s ice cream is better than the ice cream anyway.)

———————

V

The first time Wato had fallen asleep against Sherlock her head had slipped along the couch and landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. The woman nearly jumped off the couch. She didn’t, thankfully, otherwise she’d have to make up an excuse for waking Wato, and truthfully getting Wato to fall asleep has been #1 on her list of Deal With Wato Tachibana’s Dark Circles. (#2 involved keeping her away from all forms of caffeine.)

So Sherlock didn’t move away from the contact. Rather she ran three scenarios through her head, calculating the odds of successfully extricating herself while leaving Wato blissfully oblivious and very much asleep. Only one scenario yielded positive results, with one bit exception.

Sherlock sighed. Carefully she snaked her arm around Wato’s waist, and slowly moved them back until they were fully reclined on the couch. Wato didn’t stir. Biting her lip, Sherlock slowly moved her arm from under Wato. Then Wato stirred and Sherlock holds her breath, mind already running through possible excuses.

But Wato simply shifted to her side, buries her nose into Sherlock’s shoulder and further traps her arm. Trying to move her arm only yielded whines from Wato – breath ghosting along Sherlock’s neck and for once she cursed her choice of loose collared shirt and the chill down her back. Still sound asleep, however. Even a bit cute. Only a bit – tad – pinch – less than a milligram.

Sherlock skimmed through her thesis with one hand, not at all paying attention to where the other’s looped around Wato’s waist or the feel of Wato’s shirt beneath her fingers. Neither is she paying attention to Wato’s breathing – choppy breathing is the first sign of a nightmare, she recalls.

She still can’t remember when she fell asleep. But she’s absolutely, 100% certain she fell asleep with her head thrown back, _not_ leaning against Wato’s.

\----

(The trend continues. Wato falling asleep near or on a part of Sherlock. And Sherlock can’t say she minds because that would be a lie and she despises self-delusions. Still she breathes easier after finding a way to get Wato’s head on her lap instead of her shoulder. It’s simply a better position for sleeping.

The small itch Sherlock has biting at her fingers, urging her to run them through Wato’s hair factored in approximately 1.5% into the decision. The fact that she’s combing through Wato’s hair while the woman snores into her stomach is a statistical outlier and shouldn’t be taken into consideration.

Also Sherlock’s reading a thriller which promised to be interesting but she’s on chapter 2 and already knows who’s the killer and who’s going to take the fall, so she needs something to keep her sane and calm. But if Wato keeps sighing whenever Sherlock’s fingers graze her jaw, Sherlock might develop tachycardia.)

———————

VI

_“You’re going to a different town to… plant?”_

_“Yes, my boss was commissioned and he needs the extra hands –”_

_“So you’re leaving when the possibility of a new case is at its peak. Even you, with your lacklustre knowledge in statistics, realise this, correct?”_

_“It’s just as likely to be “boring” given that you’ve rejected three cases just this week.”_

_“Solved. I solved three cases in less than a minute each.” Sherlock spins her chair. “No, actually go. I can solve whatever the inspector sends twice as fast without your clashing wardrobe poking my eyes. In fact –”_

Wato looks down at the scarf Sherlock tossed her – after a good minute of rummaging through the bundle on the couch – and can’t help but smile. Not because the scarf obviously doesn’t go with Wato’s jacket or jeans or shirt. Not because it’s a bright red colour with large palm leaves. Definitely not because she remembers when Sherlock found it while tidying up her apartment, remembers how Sherlock scrunched up her face yet still folded it neatly.

(Okay maybe partially because of that image.)

Mostly she’s smiling because the scarf smells like Sherlock. And it’s nice. A balm against the stark contrast of the quiet surrounding her. She found it odd at first – how everyone was lively and chatted yet it was still like a silence surrounded her, as if everything is quieter compared to having Sherlock by her side. It’s certainly less stressful but –

Wato misses her. _It’s stupid –_ She’s been gone half a day – _It’s stupid_ – doesn’t mean it’s any less true – _It’s stupid, how’ll you move out?_

Her hands tighten on the pot, bends it so dirt spills onto her jeans and Wato curses, moving quickly to wipe it off. She hadn’t thought about it. Moving out of 221B. Not waking up to Sherlock’s cello, or chatting with Mrs Hatano while making breakfast. Or getting dragged into cases along with Sherlock. Or – or living without any of it.

That’s the plan, isn’t it? To find a stable job, save up enough move and… leave. No Cases. No tea with Mrs Hatano. No finding chocolates in random places. No errands to run with Mrs Hatano. No Sherlock to babysit. No – No Sherlock.

Right?

Wato presses a hand to her chest, smears dirt into her shirt without a care. Digs her fingers in. As if she’ll be able to tear out the weight suddenly there, wrapped around her heart and pushing down, greedily stealing every odd breath.

No Sherlock.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and Wato nearly jumps out of her skin. She makes sure the plant’s properly covered in the plot before looking at her phone. She shouldn’t be surprised Sherlock sent a text, yet she is. Doubly so when she actually reads the text.

_The average bee will make only 1/12th of a teaspoon of honey in its lifetime._

Wato squints, re-reads it. Then again. And again before another arrives and she has to unlock her phone to read it.

_The bees’ buzz is the sound made by their wings which beat 11,400 times per minute._

Wato’s forehead hurts with how high her brows are.

_Are you sending me bee facts?_

The reply is instantaneous – _I could switch to crocodiles if you prefer._

Wato’s in the middle of typing a reply when her phone vibrates again.

_Crocodiles really do produce tears. While eating they swallow too much air, which gets in touch with lachrymal glands (glands that produce tears) and forces tears to flow. But it’s not actually crying._

_Are you really that bored?_

_No._

Wato can’t (won’t) say why she’s disappointed, why the words are hard to swallow. Almost like _She’s not my friend._

Wato’s boss saves her from tumbling down _that_ slippery slope, and what better distraction than steadying a man twice your size, carrying your weight in flowerpots. Especially when he’s stacked them so high he can’t see where he’s going.

When they finish planting all of the flowers, closer to the evening than the afternoon, there’ll be three messages waiting for Wato. One from Mrs Hatano that’s more of a miniature novel, retelling the newest development in one of her tacky shows. The other two are from Sherlock and most definitely not about crocodiles or a new case.

_Camellia japonica_ _is a long lived evergreen, large shrub or small tree. Indoor cultivation of Camellia japonica is bound to be plagued by some problems as they are very sensitive to any change in their position, temperature, humidity and moisture._

  1. _japonica 'Alba Plena' is nicknamed the "Bourbon Camellia" has double, white 10cm flowers that bloom in spring._



And should Wato search about Camellias on the trip back, it’s purely to sate her curiosity. Definitely not because she felt a sudden warmth thinking about Sherlock sending her facts about flowers.

———————

VII

It’s well past 3 in the morning when Wato comes down into Sherlock’s apartment. Sherlock knows because she’s got a clock widget on her screen, an annoying thing in the top right corner that she can’t get herself to remove. She’s more important matters anyway, like figuring out this formula so she can add it to the equation and finally have a full path from point A to point D with points B, C, E and –

Shit she forgot F. How could she forget point F?

“Dammit.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“It’s almost four in the morning.”

Sherlock knows that. Just like she knows scrapping g from the formula yields a destabilising factor but adds speed and more speed means more reach and less time but hectic energy leads to erratic pathing –

Something lands over her, covers the screen and her eyes – _get it off get it off get off_ –

A blanket. Same dark blue shade she keeps on the couch for late nights. She should put it in the washer, there’s dark brown splotches covering one side. The splotches smell of iodine, did she use the blanket while cleaning her shirts?

“Sherlock, where are you going?”

Sherlock stops, having completely forgotten Wato’s still here. Still here and looking displeased, with her arms crossed and jutting her chin out and – _is she displeased with me?_

“To wash the blanket.”

“I told you to go to bed.” _Did she?_ “But you weren’t listening so I gave you the blanket. Not because it’s dirty.”

Oh, that’s actually very considerate. (And nice. Sherlock’s lips twitch at the thought.) But needless, really Sherlock’s had gotten enough sleep yesterday (or the day before? It was a Wednesday yes? And today is Thursday, Friday?) ( _“It’s Saturday”_ ) and she’s drank enough caffeine to last her through the night and she’s this close, _this_ close to solving the formula –

“You’re more likely to crash from all the caffeine than solve the formula.”

Sherlock squints, stepping closer to Wato (on unsteady legs.) “I said all of that aloud?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Is all Sherlock says before shrugging and going back to her computer, handling off the blanket to Wato. If she crashes, she crashes. She has ample experience falling asleep at her computer with triple the amount of caffeine – wait, three cups times three, plus those two energy drinks she took –

“How are you alive with so much caffeine?” Oh she was calculating aloud again. No matter.

“Succumb to the Void, Tachibana.” Sherlock spins in her chair, arms extended in a display, and grinning wide. Too wide, maybe. Her cheeks hurt and Wato doesn’t look even an ounce comforted or allured by the prospect of the Void. Pity, Sherlock wouldn’t mind company.

“You’re delirious.”

“I’m achieving another level of cognitive reasoning.” Sherlock straightens (bounces) in her chair.

Wato rubs her forehead. “That’s sleep deprivation.”

“No. I know what sleep deprivation feels like. This definitely isn’t –” Sherlock blinks and suddenly Wato’s dragging her, fingers digging into the crook of her elbow. Another blink and Sherlock’s lying on the couch, Wato above her and stuffing something beneath Sherlock’s head.

It takes her two tries, but Sherlock catches Wato’s arm. “What are you doing?!”

“Even higher cognitive reasoning needs regular blood flow.” Wato easily slips from her grasp, Sherlock’s fingers lagging behind. It’s shaking – her hand. She didn’t notice before but now her eyes catch the minute twitches of her fingers and – it’s like she’s watching someone else’s hand. Sherlock raises her brows when Wato takes her extended hand and tucks it beneath a blanket. “You’re freezing.”

“Am not.” Just to prove her wrong shivers wrack through her body, and Sherlock burrows further into the blanket. “I could use some tea.”

Wato pinches her nose, breathes out slowly. “I’m not bringing you tea when you’re suffering a caffeine crash, Sherlock.”

“But you don’t want me to freeze, don’t you?”

Wato gives her a long look. If the lack of caffeine and sleep weren’t catching up with her, Sherlock would have categorised that look in the time it took Wato to nod and go into Sherlock’s kitchen. As it stands, the Void dumps her back into her own, sleep deprived, over-caffeinated self and sleep is too alluring to wait for Wato to come back.

Come morning Sherlock remembers feeling something comb through her hair, and something else – soft, warm, fleeting – press into her forehead; also remembers trying to catch whatever it was, and feeling something squeeze her hand.

———————

VIII

Wato read online that keeping a journal helps work through… stuff. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Struggles with keeping Sherlock from pissing people off. Honestly after everything with Mariko Irikawa – Akira Moriwaki – whoever she really was – Wato’s hesitant to seek another therapist. Or to even talk about to with anyone. Really the last thing she wants is to burden people with it.

(Most curious, she found the article open on her laptop – an early New Year’s present from Mrs Hatano, who refuses to take it back and hold it until it’s actually New Years’. Sherlock had used the laptop earlier, something about testing neural networks but Wato didn’t really listen.) 

So Wato keeps a journal, pen and paper. It just feels more real when she puts it on paper, mistakes and crossed out words marking it as her own and not some figment of her imagination. Grounds her.

It was supposed to be a therapy journal, but after a – peculiar, shall we say – case, Wato finds herself itching to write it down, to commit it and come back to it. And Sherlock sometimes utterly glows when solving cases, her face lights up when she connects all the dots, when she finishes the puzzle and – and Wato wants to commit it to memory. So she writes her troubles at the front, and records the cases in the back. (But never in front of Sherlock. The woman would figure it out and Wato would never live it down.)

The new notebooks show up when the old one’s two pages away from being full. They’re lying on her nightstand, neatly aligned with the edges and a few pens stacked on top, perfectly packed as if someone used a ruler to position them. Wato hesitates, doesn’t want to disturb the order, but in the end she does scoop up the pens. What she thought was a part of the notebook’s cover is actually a folded piece of paper, hidden beneath the pens. Without any hesitation Wato unfolds the paper:

 _They’re erasable pens._ – is all that’s written in a familiar handwriting, and it draws a chuckle from Wato.

“So considerate about pens,” she whispers but she doesn’t stop smiling.

\---

(It’s two days later that Wato notices she has another, smaller notebook tucked in her bag – hidden in one of the inner pockets, a dark blue cloth wrapped around it with a pen tucked into the cloth. Also an erasable pen.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but Wato catches her curious glances from the corner of her eye and that’s all she needs to hear.)

\----

(Sherlock is miffed it takes Wato a week to find the robin sketch in her small notebook – it’s on the third page dammit, how hard is it to find? Next time Sherlock should just tape a bird’s feather to the cover and let Wato figure it out.

But then Sherlock wouldn’t be there to see Wato’s reaction – eyes light up, lips curve into an impish smile and fingers tracing the sketch, dare Sherlock say revelry – and that simply won’t do.)

———————

IX

More times than she cares to count – she stopped at 312 – Sherlock wonders why Wato insists on carrying such a large bag with her. (Wonders but definitely doesn’t ask.) Essentials can fit in a smaller bag if one knows how to organise everything. Perhaps Sherlock should send her some videos on compact packing one’s things.

But they turn the corner and near the school’s gate – looking for the victim’s friends – and Wato produces a large pair of (tacky) vibrant red earphones. She waves them in front of Sherlock until Sherlock takes them, eyes glued to Wato and head tilted in question. Wato merely gestures for her to put them on.

No sooner did Sherlock fastened the earphones does Wato flinch at something. A moment later they see a sea of children run through the school’s entrance, scattering along the yard. No doubt screaming their little lungs off as children are wont to do, no regard for the proper sound ranges or damaged hearing.

Sherlock doesn’t hear anything. No bells or children. Just comforting, peaceful silence, and Wato’s comforting presence next to her.

_Okay, maybe the bag has some uses._

———————

 X

Sherlock’s positive she didn’t leave a packet of chocolates near her computer. Because she distinctly recalls throwing away the last empty box yesterday, while she dragged Wato out to confront the killer. Because Wato had gone back to throw away the box in the trash since Sherlock missed.

(The entire evening had been a blur of scenes and notes and messages the suspects left on the victim’s phone – the only thing missing from the crime scene, chucked into a pond well away from the crime scene. A blur of trying to piece them all together into a coherent montage. And Wato – beautiful, wonderful Wato – had given her a link she never expected; made it all fit _perfectly._ )

Not to mention Sherlock upturned her room before bed looking for a piece to stop the buzzing beneath her skin, and turned up with nothing so she had to dull herself with paperback puzzles. (Next time she’ll try ones in a different foreign language just to make it the bare minimum of a challenge.)

So no, Sherlock doesn’t have a box of her favourite chocolates, nor did she go out and by some. And yet the box on her desk is legitimate, filled with legitimate chocolate and packaged recently. It hasn’t even lingered on the shelves in the store, the packaging is too fine and there are no discolorations or abrasions.

It couldn’t have been Mrs Hatano. She’s still out of town on a spa trip with some friends Sherlock didn’t bother to remember. And the woman can’t keep a present hidden from Wato to save her life, let alone Sherlock.

Her brother hasn’t visited as far as she realised. He pops up at odd times (to check on her, the busybody) but his lock picking leaves much to be desired and even more to be corrected. Their lock was untouched.

So that leaves Wato.

Sherlock snaps her fingers, grumbling around a piece of chocolate.

Of course. Wato. Sherlock heard her tell-tale footsteps down the stairs earlier than usual – Sherlock has timed her cello practice with Wato’s usually morning routine, but today Sherlock was still tangled on the couch when Wato left. Left and returned by the time Sherlock stashed away the cello.

But when had she – ?

_“You should’ve opened more windows if you’re going to clean the lab.”_

Of course. While Sherlock was cleaning her lab tools. It’s the perfect opportunity – her back was to Wato, the woman had mention opening windows so Sherlock wouldn’t startle at Wato opening them, and the sound is enough to mask putting something among the desk clutter.

Sherlock hums, scratching at her chin. Wato’s getting better, Sherlock muses. She takes another piece of chocolate, grin spreading as she chews.

———————

XI

Wato hears Sherlock talking downstairs before she realises she’s moving toward the stairs. Worse yet, she’s climbing them two at a time. And Wato’s still in her nightshirt. A relatively light nightshirt.

_Shit. Shit shit shit_

Wato scrambles off the bed, basically dives for her wardrobe to find something to cover herself. Preferably something other than a coat so Sherlock, who has no shame and would storm inside without a care, doesn’t immediately realise Wato’s hiding something.

(She’s pretty sure – say 85% – the toner means Sherlock already knows but knowing in an abstract way that Wato has scars and seeing them are two vastly, uncomfortably different things.)

Wato tosses another shirt aside when she hears Sherlock stop in front of her door. _Shit._ Wato grabs the closest thing and wraps it around herself. She kicks the discarded clothes back inside, and slams the doors closed with her back, a fake smile plastered on her face –

Knocking.

_What?_

“Oi, we have a case,” Sherlock says from the other side of the door, still knocking as if Wato hadn’t heard her the first time. Which is good because her minds still catching up, hung up on the notion of Sherlock _knocking._ No barging in, no carelessness of propriety, no playful grin.

Knocks and waits.

“Are you still asleep? Geez.” Wato jumps away from the wardrobe.

“I’m awake!”

“Then be downstairs in five minutes. Otherwise I’m going without you.” She wouldn’t. Sherlock has yet to leave the house without Wato, barring that one time with – _that one time_. And she did that one on purpose, no question.

Wato is ready with 0.5 minutes to spare, lighter than she’s been in recent days that has everything to do with Sherlock. She’ll even take Sherlock’s whining about making her wait with a smile.

———————

XII

It started with a student’s thesis, which Sherlock needed to review as a favour to someone or other in England. And she decided to pass it to Wato because _“You’re relatively fresh out of school and familiar with sloppy logic.”_

There was a compliment hidden there, underneath the tired sass, so Wato took the thesis. But then Sherlock stops her from leaving; wants her to read it. To her. To Sherlock.

_“I’m tired.”_

_“So read it tomorrow.”_

_“It needs to be done tonight.”_ And Sherlock had pulled her version of puppy dog eyes and Wato was doomed.

It started with that thesis. But then Sherlock dumped a report from a cold case that’s seen better days and Shibata had to unearth for their newest case, and asked her to read it while Sherlock went through the evidence. Wato huffs, but still goes through the dry descriptions, and thankfully Sherlock doesn’t force her to read through the detailed autopsy report. (Just because she’s finished medicine doesn’t mean she’s not queasy at vivid descriptions of corpses.)

Case reports shift to scientific reports turn to news reports move over to books. And that’s when Wato puts her foot – er, book down.

“Do you need glasses, Sherlock? I’m sure Kento knows a few people. Or maybe you get free physicals through your contract?”

“My eyes are fine,” Sherlock deadpans, eyes trained onto the massive jigsaw puzzle sprawled on the floor. Over 10000 pieces. They had to move the table to the kitchen and push the armchairs closer to the door. Wato had been shooed to the couch and left to sort through the tilted stack of books Sherlock unearthed from somewhere.

“Then you can read fine.”

“But I’m busy.” Sherlock sets another forest piece. She’s about halfway done with the prairie, one fourth done with the fortress and barely started on either the forest or the sky. Wato always hated filling out the sky.

Silence stretches. Sherlock humming as she thinks where to put the next piece, while flicking said piece between her fingers. And Wato watching her more than the puzzle. Sherlock glances up, but Wato doesn’t look away, holds steady even when her heart’s beating in her ears.

Her lips tug in a lopsided smile, and Sherlock says, before she looks back at the puzzle, “Your voice goes soft when you read.”

Wato doesn’t know what to say to that. The only things going through her head are a mix of _at least she’s not looking_ and general white noise gibberish, face warm and is she smiling? It feels like she is. It’s purely to hide her blushing face that Wato leans back and opens the book.

Reading it, aloud at that, has nothing to do with it.

(It has everything to do with catching Sherlock’s impish smile over the book’s covers.)

\----

(If a few days later Mrs Hatano catches them asleep on the couch – or rather, Wato sprawled on the couch, cradling a thick book, and Sherlock surrounded by papers, back against the couch, head resting on Wato’s leg –

If Mrs Hatano finds them like that, she leaves them be and goes on fixing breakfast. They’ve had a hectic week, and deserve to sleep in every once in a while.)

———————

XIII

Wato comes home late to find Sherlock’s apartment dark and a piece of chocolate waiting on her pillow. She savours it with her tea the next morning. She also ignores Sherlock’s pleased look. It’s probably from the coffee.

A few days later Wato finds another piece lying atop her notebook. Curious, Wato flips open her notebook only to find a sketch of a baby sandpiper in the top right corner.

And another the following morning, hidden in a box of her favourite tea. Then another in her jacket pocket. Then one in her shoes – _“Come on Sherlock, I could’ve stepped in that”_ – and finally another on the sitting room table, right next to a book Wato started reading yesterday.

It’s sweet – both literally and figuratively – and finding them never fails to brighten Wato’s day, but she can’t shake the feeling she’s missing something, that they’re purposefully placed to lead her to something and she’s missing it.

\----

(It’s when Sherlock tries to steal one back, jumps out of the way of Wato’s swipes and challenges her with _“So take it”_ that it clicks.

That Wato breathes out an _“oh.”_

And Sherlock doesn’t move away when Wato steps close, doesn’t flinch as Wato leans up. Practically melts like the chocolate between their lips.

“Took you long enough, Wato.”

“Shut up.”)

———————

XIV

Being sick is horrible, Sherlock decides.

Being bedridden because you’re sick is abhorrent, horrendous, one of the worst things to happen to her.

No, scratch that – being bedridden due to an illness while Wato’s off visiting family is the worst thing to happen to her. Never mind that Sherlock had insisted she’ll be fine, or that it was entirely her fault she got sick, or that she didn’t feel comfortable going to Wato’s old hometown.

It’s still fresh, this development – _relationship_ – they have and Sherlock’s careful, takes chances where she knows they won’t ruin what they have before it even blooms. Meeting Wato’s family is the fastest way to make the whole thing awkward and she’d rather avoid that. She’d rather stay the eccentric roommate to Wato’s parents than the crass, blunt eccentric girlfriend.

Even if it means being stuck in bed and missing Wato.

Her phone pings next to her pillow and Sherlock slaps around in the dark looking for it – Mrs Hatano closed all of her binds to help with her migraine. Oh yes, she forgot the migraine. As if summoned pain pokes at her temples, spiking as Sherlock unlocks her phone.

But the pain’s worth it just to read another message from Wato.

 _Found this little guy and it reminded me of someone_ – followed by a several pictures of a black cat with white paws; minding his business in the first few, but as the series goes on, the cat grows more and more displeased with being kept awake.

 _Ridiculous,_ Sherlock thinks. Her scoff’s cut off by another message. This time it’s a single picture – Wato cradling the black cat in her arms, scratching beneath his white chin and the cat looks like he’s purring.

 _Okay, maybe there’s a sliver of resemblance_ , Sherlock sends. She ponders sending a random fact, but scouring her brain for such only makes her headache worse.

Oh well, she’ll tell her when Wato gets back.

“Sherlock!”

Unless Mrs Hatano doesn’t smother her with soups and blankets first.

———————

XV

It happened after a nightmare, after – after _that._ Moriya and Mariko and Sherlock – Sherlock.

Wato had a lot of nightmares. They wouldn’t leave her be, they felt worse than Syria, because they were a mishmash of Syria and a gun firing and bodies falling and screams, so many screams. Like a sea, washing, engulfing, swallowing down down down –

And suddenly in the middle of it all there was a spark of calm. Wato latched onto it for dear life, a line amid the sea and she held on, she didn’t want to go back, _not there not there not there_.

“You’re home.” Rings above the current. The line tightens around Wato’s hand, or maybe the other way around but it doesn’t matter, not really when Wato breaks the surface – when she gasps for air and slams her eyes open –

Eyes open to a dark room, no clouds no storms. No screaming in her ears, not water either, only light snoring. No line in her grasp, only Sherlock’s hand wrapped around tightly. Only her thumb stroking against Wato’s wrist – _right above the radial artery_ if Wato remembers right.

It calms her. Sherlock sleeping next to her, hearing her light snores, the fact that Sherlock snores, the thumb running along her wrist – maybe – most likely – definitely all of it, it calls her. Lulls her back in calmer dreams.

Sherlock’s there when she wakes up. Hair dishevelled, nose buried in her pillow, holding Wato’s hand awkwardly between them and bundled in more blankets than Wato is, but very much _there_.

(Not hunted. Not lost in the city. Not possibly bleeding out. Not alone. Not in danger. Not lost.)

( _Here here here here here here here_ )

And Wato can’t remember being happier.

\----

Wato finds out Sherlock has nightmares about _that_ completely by accident. She drank too much water while they were out – for once not chasing a case – and she’s going back to her room when she hears it:

“Wato. Wato.” Over and over again, coming from behind Sherlock’s door. Desperate, watery, raw repetitions that tug on Wato’s heart like sharp nails.

She doesn’t even think, Wato storms into Sherlock’s room, goes straight for the woman kicking in her sleep, pillow practically smothered in her grasp and knuckles white from the effort. Wato barely touches her, fingers scrape against Sherlock’s shoulder, barely utters Sherlock’s name when the woman bolts up.

She looks around, bewildered, jerky motions that have no place being associated with Sherlock, until her eyes land on Wato.

“Sherlock,” Wato repeats, hesitantly. Sherlock deflates visibly, leans back against the headboard with a loud _thud_ and just breathes. Wato waits, unsure but hesitant to leave her like this, hesitant to comfort her because she doesn’t know _how_.

She wants to take her hand but it might cause Sherlock to pull back. She wants to hold her in her arms, but Sherlock’s just as likely to slip away. She wants to tell her _I’m here, I’m fine_ but they both know the last one’s a lie.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock rasps. Wato shakes her head before realising Sherlock can’t see.

“No.”

Silence falls between them, heavy and humid and uncomfortable.

“Should I stay?”

“Would you stay?”

Both blurt out simultaneously, and stop as the words register.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Sherlock backtracks, curling into herself and Wato won’t have any of it.

“Don’t lie.” Wato snatches the pillow from Sherlock’s grasp, and even though she can’t see Sherlock’s face, she can feel her eyes. “Scoot over.”

“You don’t –”

“Do you want me to leave?”

The sound of sheets shifting and a hand guiding her down are the only answers Wato gets. But it’s enough. A hand sliding down her arm, fingers lingering, hesitantly – Sherlock’s blowing out a shaky breath as Wato’s fingers hold hers close –

Sherlock letting her in.

It’s enough.

_I’m here._

———————

Wato presses _I love you_ into Sherlock’s cheek, quick and light but always warm.

Sherlock spells _I love you_ with fingers against Wato’s jaw, light and guiding but never insisting.

It’s not the only way they say it. Far from it. It’s just the most upfront.

**Author's Note:**

> According to the interwebs:  
> -> C. japonica 'Alba Plena' symbolizes longing and no one can convince me Sherlock doesn't know flower language/uses it to send codes to Wato  
> ->Robin symbolizes new beginnings but also personal growth. Y'all better bet Wato grew in Sherlock's eyes  
> -> Sandpiper symbolizes an explorer of the wild
> 
> I listened to Gnuss Cello's cover of 'Thought Contagion' while writing the cello scene so I guess that's what Sherlock's playing?
> 
> Also don't mix perfume and manure, that's just me bullshitting Sherlock's experiments.
> 
>  
> 
> Also most of these scenes are based on headcanons


End file.
